


Go Gentle

by gumbiecat



Series: Till Dakota Do Us Part [3]
Category: Milo Murphy's Law
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 07:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13946739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gumbiecat/pseuds/gumbiecat
Summary: Cavendish dies, and Death is there to welcome him.





	Go Gentle

“So,” says Dakota, taking a bite of his breakfast burrito and surveying the construction site before him. “What’s our mission again?”

They’re sitting on a bus stop bench finishing a quick lunch before their task is set to begin. Cavendish lets out an irritated sigh as he scans the construction site across the street. It looks like a new mall is being built. “Didn’t you listen to a word Block said?”

“I tuned him out after the third time he called us morons. I knew you were listening, so why do we both have to?” 

Cavendish is about to take Dakota to task, but he remembers the egg roll and lets it slide. “There’s going to be an explosion at that construction site,” he explains. “We’re to hijack the pistachio van that will pull up in front of us and drive it away before it’s destroyed.”

“Damn. An explosion?” Dakota frowns. “And we’re saving pistachios? What if someone gets hurt?”

“No one gets hurt. The workers will be on their lunch break during the explosion, which should be in—“ Cavendish checks his watch— “eight minutes. We’ll have to kill time until then.”

Dakota swallows the last of his burrito, crumples the wrapper into a ball, and holds up both his index fingers. “Chopsticks?”

It’s a game Cavendish taught Dakota years ago, on one of their earliest and most boring missions. Cavendish can’t help a small smile as he accepts. 

It’s one of the many things he loves about Dakota, the fact that he knows these games. He has so many tiny ways to pass time. Cavendish particularly loves Chopsticks because it lets him touch Dakota’s hands, if only in brief brushes. He’ll take any closeness he can get while he waits for the perfect day to tell Dakota he loves him.

His heart speeds up as he remembers that today could be that day. All he needs to do is pull off a mission successfully. Then he won’t be a miserable failure, the lowest of the low, and he won’t be dragging Dakota down to his level when he confesses his feelings. 

One successful mission. That’s all Cavendish needs. 

His heart thumps uncomfortably. 

He’s _not_ using it as an excuse to put off telling Dakota, he reminds himself. Because if he succeeds in a mission, Dakota won’t reject him. That’s why he has to wait. So that Dakota won’t think he’s useless. 

The two play the hand game until Cavendish’s watch beeps. It’s two minutes before the explosion, and the pistachio van is trundling down the street. 

“Cutting it kind of close,” Dakota remarks. Cavendish shushes him and watches carefully as the van pulls up to the curb and the driver gets out and walks away. 

Once he’s gone, the two time travelers run over. Dakota tries the door. “He locked it.”

Cavendish pulls a wire out of his pocket and sticks it in the lock. He jiggles it and the van’s alarm starts to wail. “Blast. It’s one of those awful modern ones.”

“Modern for the twenty-first century, anyway,” says Dakota, glancing behind him. “Better hurry. The delivery guy’s coming back.”

Cavendish snarls in frustration. He glances around and sees a large rock perched on the curb next to the bus stop bench. He doesn’t like having to resort to vandalism, but it is the perfect size to smash a window with. He darts across the street to pick it up. 

He’s halfway back to the van when the construction site explodes. 

It’s not a big explosion, relatively. There’s no huge fireball engulfing the half-built strip mall and mushrooming out with swirling flames. There’s just a _pop_ and then a _boom_ , and debris flies through the air. A girder crushes the pistachio truck. The impact of the explosion knocks Cavendish back a step. 

He blinks, trying to get his hearing back. His ears seem to be ringing. He’s still on his feet, somehow, but he’s propped up at an angle he shouldn’t be able to balance at, leaning backwards far enough to see the clear blue sky, and for some reason he can’t get enough air. 

Dimly, he thinks he hears Dakota say, “Oh.”

It takes a moment for Cavendish to realize he should look down. When he does, he understands everything. 

There’s a piece of piping sticking out of his chest. 

It’s impaled him at an angle, one end wedged in the asphalt, keeping him upright. He can’t seem to breathe around it. It doesn’t quite hurt, not yet, but Cavendish suspects he’s in shock. 

There’s blood in his mouth. He tries to cough it out, but his chest won’t contract around the piping, and it starts to build in his throat. 

He can’t breathe. 

Dakota. Dakota can fix this, get the pipe out of his chest, call an ambulance. Cavendish looks up as blood drips down his chin and meets his partner’s eyes. He tries to suck in enough air to tell Dakota what to do and ends up choking on blood. 

Dakota has a strange blank look on his face. It’s the same kind of face he makes when he drops something he’s eating, right before he picks it up and finishes it anyway. He looks Cavendish in the eyes, but it’s with the face of someone looking at a storm-downed tree—mildly saddened, but unable or unwilling to do anything about it. Like someone who says _I’ll miss that tree,_ and then forgets it was ever there within a month. 

_Help me_ , Cavendish tries to say. It hurts now, his chest tightening around the metal that shouldn’t be there, hard against parts of his body that were never meant to touch the world as his lungs beg for air that won’t come. He tries to lift his hand and can’t. 

Dakota nods slowly. “Okay,” he says, and takes a breath, his chest rising and falling. “Okay.” 

And then he turns and walks away. 

Panic surges through Cavendish and his eyes sting. He wants to call Dakota back, beg him to stay, but the blood in his throat chokes him and he only manages half a cough. _Dakota_ , he thinks. _Dakota, please come back. Don’t leave_. He doesn’t want to die, but more than that, he doesn’t want to die alone. 

His vision is going fuzzy. Dakota is an orange blur retreating into the distance. 

_Let go._

The voice is more in his head than his ears. Cavendish squeezes his eyes shut. _I can’t_ he thinks. _I don’t want to die._

 _It’s okay, I’ve got you. Let go, my love_ , the voice says tenderly. _It hurts so much less if you let go._ A hand brushes Cavendish’s cheek and he wants to flinch. It feels wrong somehow, catching on his skin like the microfiber cloths he uses to clean mirrors. 

He can’t see any more. 

_Dakota’s coming back for me,_ he tries to whisper, blood bubbling over his lips. 

_No, he’s not,_ the voice whispers. _He never does. Balthazar, love, you’ll be all right. Come with me and it won’t hurt any more, I promise._

Cavendish wants to hold on. But it’s so dark, and he can barely hear the sirens past the ringing in his ears, and even the ache in his chest is becoming distant. He doesn’t have the energy to struggle for breath any more. 

So he lets go. 

 

He’s gone for a moment. And then he’s back. Standing in front of his body, looking at the ambulances. Oh, he can see again.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s not breathing. 

Cavendish knows that should panic him, and it does, but normally his panic manifests as hyperventilation, and right now he can’t do that. He’s not breathing, he doesn’t seem to need to, so he can’t count his breaths and wait for it to pass. He clenches his fists and tries to calm down. 

“ _Balthazar_ ,” says a delighted voice, and he looks he up. The person before him, if it is a person, is smiling like the best gift of their life is sitting in front of them. Cavendish squints, trying to make out their features, anything discernible, but he can’t process it, can’t make his mind see what his eyes are looking at. 

The person takes his face between their hands. Their palms feel like microfiber. They pull Cavendish to them and press their lips to his.

It’s sudden and sharp, like kissing a static shock. Cavendish jerks back and the stranger huffs a laugh.

“You always do that,” they say, and kiss his forehead. A smaller shock. They let his face go and take his hand instead. “Come on, I’ve got you for a little longer this time. I took a physical form and had your time car impounded, so we should have a few hours before Vinnie takes you from me.” 

“Wait a moment,” says Cavendish. His head is spinning. He pulls away from the stranger, rubbing his hand to get rid of the microfiber feeling. “I don’t understand. Who are you?” 

The stranger gives him a fond grimace. “Of course,” they sigh. “You never remember. I’m your lover.”

For a moment, Cavendish wants to ask if they’re Dakota, the only person who pops into his head at the word lover, but they’re so obviously not that the question dies stillborn. 

“Am I dead?” he asks instead. 

“Of course you are. People don’t survive pipes through the chest.” The stranger chuckles and takes Cavendish’s hand again. “I’m Death. I’ve been in love with you since the Jurassic period. Come along, you don’t want to see them pull the piping out. It’ll be gross.”

They lead Cavendish away. Cavendish wants to stay, wants to see what will happen to his body, but something about Death tells him saying no to them would be a bad idea. He follows them down several streets to a grassy park, gritting his teeth at the feeling of their skin. 

Neither of them speaks on the walk. Cavendish tried to compose himself. He needs to put his questions in order, to not look like an idiot before the being that presumably controls his existence now. He’s struggling with whether to ask /How did we meet in the Jurassic period/ or /How do you know me at all/ first when Death tugs his hand and pulls him down onto an unoccupied bench. 

“I don’t really like parks, but I know you do,” they say, smiling at him. “Goodness knows you’ve died in them enough times. So, tell me everything that’s happened since I last saw you.”

“Er,” says Cavendish, suddenly stuck for words. “When exactly was that?”

“Two—no, three weeks ago.” Death ticks it off on their fingers. “Lazer frisbee accident.”

Cavendish frowns. “I didn’t die then. Dakota pulled me out of the way.”

“Yeah, he did the second time around. He had to go back in time to do it, like he always does. How do you think he knew when to tackle you?” 

Nothing about this makes sense. Cavendish shakes his head. “What do you mean, like he always does?”

“Dakota takes you from me every time you die,” says Death matter-of-factly. “And you die a lot. Each time, he goes back in time a few minutes and saves you. So I don’t get to keep you. In a way, I’ve never had you at all.”

Cavendish blinks. He feels a little dizzy. Strange that he can feel dizzy but he can’t breathe. 

“I die a lot?” he asks. 

Death nods. “On a good week, every day. Sometimes twice a day, mostly when it takes Dakota a couple tries to save you.”

A memory bubbles up in Cavendish’s mind—walking down the street with Dakota, almost stepping into the path of a speeding car when his partner pulled him out of the way. Dakota has shrugged it off so easily. He did that whenever the two narrowly missed danger, it seemed, whether something fell from the sky just inches from them or they stopped a foot short of a cliff. 

God, if those weren’t the coincidences Cavendish had always thought they were—

He presses a hand to his mouth. 

“Are you all right?” Death asks, resting their hand on the back of his neck. Cavendish tries not to shudder. 

“Why does he save me?” he whispers. 

Death barks a sharp laugh. “Because you’re _you_ ,” they say like it’s obvious, rubbing small circles on Cavendish’s neck with their thumb. “And he hasn’t realized yet he can’t win.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Cavendish runs his hand through his hair, ruffling it. “Am I--am I destined to do something important? Do I stop a war? Do I save the world? Why am I important enough to save? What do I do?”

“He doesn’t save you because of something you do. He saves you because of who you are. You’re amazing, Cavendish, and he’s smart enough to see that.” Death strokes Cavendish’s cheek. “He saves you because he’s head over heels in love with you.” 

Oh. 

_Oh._

Cavendish is utterly still as the truth washes over him. Incongruously, he wishes he could breathe more than ever. It feels wrong not to hold his breath as he realizes something so profoundly important.

Dakota loves him.

Dakota loves him _back._

And Cavendish--

He’s--

“Hey,” says Death, patting his knee, and Cavendish starts. “Stop thinking about that idiot. I want to make the most of our time together.” They smile and lean in.

Oh no. 

No, no no. 

Cavendish can’t do this now. He can’t pretend to love someone else, not even someone as powerful as Death, when he knows Dakota loves him. He has to get back and tell Dakota he feels the same. 

He presses a hand to Death’s chest, halting them.

“I--” he starts.

Death sighs, cutting him off, and scowls. “Damn it,” they say. “I need to stop telling you this. Every time. Every time you want to leave. I could make you palaces, Balthazar. I could build you your own world. Why go back to that clumsy, pathetic moron when you have all my power there for the asking?”

“Because,” Cavendish says carefully, and then he decides to throw caution to the winds. He stands up, balling his fists. “Because I love him, and I don’t trust you. You have been nothing but pushy and demanding, and--” He cuts himself off. He doesn’t want Death to know he’s afraid of them. 

They don’t seem angry. They push their lips together in an irritated pout, and then they smile. “That’s good to know,” they say. “Next time I just won’t tell you.”

“You won’t get a next time,” says Cavendish, crossing his arms. (He’s glad he still has arms to cross.) “The minute Dakota comes for me, I’m going to tell him everything.”

Death’s eyes widen, and then they throw back their head and laugh.

“That,” they say when they stop, “is adorable. You actually think--? You’re not going to remember _any_ of this, dearest. None of it will have even happened for anyone but Dakota and me. He goes back in _time_. You’ll never be able to tell him how you feel.” They grin. “I’m going to win you one of these days. It’s only a matter of

 

 

“Cutting it kind of close,” Dakota remarks as the pistachio van trundles down the street. Cavendish shushes him and watches carefully as the van pulls up to the curb and the driver gets out and walks away. 

Once he’s gone, the two time travelers run over. Dakota tries the door. “He locked it.”

Cavendish pulls a wire out of his pocket and sticks it in the lock. He jiggles it and the van’s alarm starts to wail. “Blast. It’s one of those awful modern ones.”

“Modern for the twenty-first century, anyway,” says Dakota, glancing behind him. “Here, I’ve got it.” He produces a large rock and Cavendish blinks.

“Where the devil did you get that?” 

“Side of the road,” says Dakota. He heaves the rock through the window, shattering the safety glass to crumbs, and unlocks the door from the inside. 

Cavendish scrambles in first, climbing into the drivers’ seat. “Come on,” he mutters, shoving a screwdriver into the ignition as Dakota gets into the passenger seat.

“Hurry,” says Dakota tensely, glancing at the construction site.

Cavendish grunts, satisfied, as the engine roars to life. He stomps on the gas pedal and the van lurches forward just as the construction site explodes. 

Something slams into the back of the van and Dakota and Cavendish cry out as it jolts. Cavendish presses the gas pedal down and they peel away from the explosion, debris raining around them.

Cavendish stops the van three blocks later and lets out a breath of relief. “We made it!” he cries, happiness blooming in his chest. Finally, _finally,_ a mission gone right. He grins at Dakota, who looks back at him with a smile that makes Cavendish’s heart stutter with joy. 

Dakota glances back and his smile slips. “Bad news.”

Cavendish’s heart sinks. “Don’t tell me.”

“ _We_ made it. The pistachios, uh… didn’t.” 

Cavendish groans and looks back. The back doors of the van are wide open, dented irreparably by debris, and the pistachios are gone. They must have fallen out as the time travelers drove away.

“Damn it,” groans Cavendish, letting his head fall on the steering wheel. The horn honks.

“Hey.” Dakota touches his shoulder, and Cavendish closes his eyes, relishing the warmth of his partner’s hand. “We’ll get it next time, right?”

Cavendish takes a deep breath. He lifts his head and takes another. Breathing feels really good right now, for some reason. He takes a third deep breath and musters up a smile for Dakota, one that turns genuine when he meets his partner’s eyes. 

Next time. He’ll tell Dakota he loves him next time. 

“Yes,” he says. “We will.”

**Author's Note:**

> WOW HAHA THAT TOOK A WHILE
> 
> I've been working on this on and off since I finished the last one. Hope you enjoy!


End file.
